


Pretty Big Fish

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Godstiel: Cas as God, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:55:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's an unseasonably hot October, Sam sets up residence in the Good Life, Castiel is indecisive, and Dean is bored and worried about the job security of weather girls. (AU from season 6 finale.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Long October

Through the dusty glass of the second story window, even the golden light looks slow and still; caressing rather than glinting over the gleaming surfaces of the mangled and rusted cars heaped under the warm autumn sun. Dean presses his temple to the warm glass, and watches the perpetual world outside. The whole world, condensed to this endless stretch of dusty land and car wreckages, where nothing moves and the hot earth and hot metal only warms up the silent air. It's hard to believe there's anything different, anywhere.

Wearing nothing but his boxer shorts, Dean doesn't feel even the slightest brush of coolness, nor the tang of sweat. He hasn't for days, hasn't even felt the mildest breeze when the window has been opened. Outside, the one deciduous tree is still wearing all her leaves; they cling to her, golden as the sunlight glinting off the rust around them, unruffled and unmoved.

Dean didn't think he would ever see the world like this, so calm, quiet and still. Scratching at his stomach, he turns away from the window, and wanders out to the bathroom down the hallway, stepping into the shower. It's mid-afternoon, a stupid time to get ready for the day, but time seems to have lost all meaning now beyond “day” and “night”, and whatever happens in those times can come and go freely in any order.

The water washing over his body feels the exact same comfortable temperature as the air around him.

This is what the world is meant to feel like, Dean thinks, after an averted apocalypse.

*

“Dean!” Sam sounds slightly surprised as Dean walks down the stairs and into the kitchen, wearing the same jeans and t-shirt he did yesterday, maybe the day before too. “I was just about to come up, bring you some lunch.”

There's a salad on the table – course there is, if Sam's been cooking – that looks to be made of spinach leaves, pear and grated Parmesan. Some of it has been put aside on a plate, along with a couple of slices of bread and ham. Dean sighs. He might have to start coming downstairs more, if for no other reason than to order some pizza.

“Thanks, man,” he says to his brother, “but you know you can just call me down, right? I'm not an invalid.”

Sam smiles tightly at Dean as he sits down in front of his plate, lifting a sliver of ham to his mouth with his fingers. “Course,” Sam says, taking the seat on the opposite side of the wooden table. “Just, you've been spending a lot of time up there.”

Dean shrugs. “Well, it's not like there's much to come down for,” he says, picking up and sniffing at a slice of pear. “C'mon dude, who puts fruit in salad?”

“Tomato is a fruit,” Sam replies, rolling his eyes. “You wouldn't object if I'd put tomato in there.”

“Yeah, I would. I object to salad on principle,” Dean grumbles, but the bickering is familiar, and therefore welcome. “Where's Bobby?”

Sam jerks his head to the driveway, where Bobby's truck is missing. “He's gone into town, pick up a few things.” Seeing Dean perk up in interest, Sam shakes his head. “Not hunting things. Just beer and bread and soap and stuff.”

“So, no news on that front then?” Dean asks.

“It's still dead out there, man. Still as the grave: Like, a normal grave, not the ones we deal with.”

Dean looks out the window, rapping his knuckles against the table impatiently. On the road in the distance, he can see a car flash past, and it almost seems to be pushing through the oppressive stillness of the air, the glint of light of it's windows catching, but Dean feels like the car might have driven past hours ago, and he's only just seeing it now due to the way the light has to force itself through the air to reach his eyes.

He knows it's a silly thought. He knows time and light are still moving at their normal speeds, really. But still, he's not sure whether he woke up twenty minutes ago, or a couple of hours ago, or yesterday.

*

_Castiel kneels by Sam's side, reaching out his fingers to caress his temple. Dean isn't quite sure when his brother collapsed, but he's actually pretty impressed that he held out so long. Castiel's eyes close for a moment, and then he pulls his hand away, standing up, his every movement calm and fluid._

_“There,” he says. “As I promised, I have fixed Sam.”_

_“Th-thanks,” Dean says warily, aware that he has to be very, very careful with his words right now. Bobby is, thankfully, remaining quiet, probably aware that he's not going to be able to guard what he says. “You put the wall back up?”_

_Castiel shakes his head – a slow movement, once to the left, once to the right, back to the centre to lock eyes with Dean. “He will remember everything of hell. But I have made it so the memories will not pain him. As if they did not belong to him._

_“Not,” Castiel continues after a pause, “that it will matter if you do not pledge allegiance to me.”_

_“Cas, don't get me wrong,” Dean says gently, stepping forward into Castiel's space. He seems to be radiating a warm glow that touches everywhere on Dean's skin, like sunlight, only softer. “But y'know, about free will?”_

_“You have free will, Dean,” Cas says, smiling that smile that he's taken to in these last long minutes. “You have the option to defy me.”_

_Dean can't help but be entranced by the silken feeling spreading over his skin the closer he stands to Castiel, but still he shakes his head. “Only, if we defy you, you destroy us.” It does not pass Dean unnoticed that Castiel is speaking to him alone, even if Dean is speaking for all of them._

_“Exactly,” Castiel says happily. “Of my own free will.”_

_Dean seeks out Castiel's eyes, realising how glad he is that they stand at more or less the same height. He may be trying to talk down an impossibly powerful being, but at least they're still level. He nearly snorts to himself, but stops himself in time. He can't do anything that might throw Castiel right now, that will help no-one._

_“You won't murder me,” Dean says, deliberately using words that he knows will appeal to Castiel's humanity – what there ever was of it. The angel's – no, not any more – gaze slips away from Dean's, and off into the corner of the room. He doesn't look avoidant, just distracted, like there's something off over there more interesting than Dean._

_“I can always bring you back,” Castiel replies, and there it is. He knows Castiel means it to sound boastful, but Dean knows he's won, because he knows that he means it. He would bring Dean back, always, every time. Sam too, almost certainly. Probably even Bobby._

_“You would, too, wouldn't you?” he smiles, reaching out. He pauses briefly before touching Castiel, wondering what he will feel like, now. Pressing his fingers tentatively to Castiel's jaw, he nudges his face back to look at Dean. Castiel lets himself be touched, and moved. He feels the same as always, really. Just more... perfect. Flawless._

_Dean has never liked flawless. He doesn't believe it's real._

_Castiel just shrugs in reply, and smiles his new smile at Dean. They're just looking at each other and smiling now, and Dean has to stop himself from laughing again, because he feels pretty much the least content he's ever felt right now, outside of hell._

_“So, you going to let us stroll on out of here?” he asks, forcing his voice to be light and gentle again. He watches as Castiel's eyes flicker around, looking at Sam's prostrate body, and Bobby's thunderous expression._

_“I have other things to attend to,” he says thoughtfully, looking up at the ceiling. “I will be back. You can decide then whether you wish to pledge your loyalty to me.”_

_The warmth emanating from Castiel doesn't leave even as it's source does, without the familiar sound of his wings fluttering in the air._

_Dean turns around to look at Bobby, who just scowls and shakes his head. Together, they carry Sam up the stairs._

*

So, it's been nearly a month, and although Dean hasn't seen even the swish of a beige trench-coat, he can, of course, feel Castiel's presence. It's in every non-report of every non-ghost and every non-demon, it's in every minute that passes without the immediate threat of danger, and it's in the oppressive, heady air itself.

Dean wonders if Castiel is keeping everything this peaceful and perfect on purpose, to piss him off.

_“Profess your love unto me, your Lord, and I will give you something to beat up.”_

_“Oh god, yes, Cas, anything. Just not one more day of this. Not one more day of channel surfing and familiar beds and familiar views.”_

Or something like that. Dean knows he's sulking. Sam knows Dean's sulking, and Bobby knows Dean's sulking, even if neither of them mention it. Themselves, they seem to have settled in to this quiet life quite well, even with the impending doom of Castiel's return and ultimatum. Sam has what he wants; really, what he's always wanted – a way out. He's taken to domesticity really well, which suits Bobby just fine – he's finally got a wife again.

Dean snorts to himself, then feels bad, and goes back to brooding, with the added tinge of guilt. He's lying stretched out on the couch, arms folded, eyes trained on the ceiling. The television is on, but he couldn't find anything other than Jerry, so he's studiously ignoring it in favour of his own steadily darkening thoughts. He's not sure how long he's been lying like this, intermittently bringing the beer bottle lying on the floor next to him to his lips, but he's pretty sure it's been less than an hour, since the show is still on. Course, they could be airing them back to back. Now there's a depressing thought, Dean muses, taking another slug from his beer.

Maybe today will be the day that Castiel shows up and kills him. That would be nice. A change of scenery before he's inevitably brought back to life. Again.

“Dear god,” Bobby mutters, strolling into the lounge-room and casting a disapproving eye over Dean. “Damn kids, never turning off the teevee, never moving their asses. Don't you think you should go out and get some fresh air, play some football with the other boys on the street? You know, I was quite happy being an empty nester.”

“Ha ha,” Dean replies, finishing off his beer. He wants to get another, but doesn't want to move. “I ain’t even watching the T.V., Paw.”

Bobby settles himself down at his desk, and Dean can hear the rustling of paper, but he doesn't look over. “Oh, I see. Back to pining for your boyfriend, then? Worried he won't ask you to prom?”

Dean's finger goes back to impatiently tap-tapping on his arm, a habit he's picked up these past few weeks. “I'm a girl now?”

“Never said that,” Bobby replies. “I've been keeping up with Glee, you know, and I've learnt that I've gotta accept you no matter who you take to the big dance.”

Dean snorts, twisting his head a little to look out the window. Still not a cloud in the sky. “I'm not sure how you can be so cool with this, Bobby. You or Sam. You're acting like everything is fine.”

“We sure as hell ain't,” Bobby replies gruffly. “And I ain't gonna build an alter to the guy. But, you know, can't deny he might be doing an okay job as CEO. All the baddies have gone on vacation, we're left with the sunniest October I ever seen. I'm just not complaining, is all.”

“Yeah,” Dean drawls, pushing himself to a sitting position, finally committing himself to the task of fetching another beer. “You do realise he's up there massacring the shit out of the other angels, don't you?”

“Well, we oughta be used to that from him now, shouldn't we?”

Dean huffs out another laugh, and heads into the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he relishes the cool that emanates from it, before snapping another beer from the slab and walking outside onto the porch to drink, and watch the sky for a change, any change.

For the first time in his life, he can feel his Lord's presence in every moment, every cell of his being, and he hates it.

*

When Castiel finally does show up, it's with about as much flair as Dean would have predicted. He, Sam and Bobby are sitting around the table, serving up a proper Sunday roast – Sam really has taken way too fondly to this, but as long as there is red meat on the table rather than mango and cous-cous salad, Dean's not going to kick up a fuss – when out of nowhere Castiel appears in the empty fourth seat. It actually takes the other three a moment to register his presence, before they all double take as one, and Dean leaps to his feet, his chair clattering to the ground behind him. Sam knocks over his drink, and Bobby nearly up-ends his plate as he slams a fist down to the table.

“Sit _down_ ,” Castiel says calmly, and Dean finds himself doing as he says, his chair having righted itself behind him. Sam's beer is back in its bottle – although Dean notices he doesn't touch it again. “Sorry if I have disturbed your meal.” He doesn't sound even the slightest bit sorry; in fact he sounds pretty amused.

“Sorry we didn't lay a place out for you,” Bobby snaps back sarcastically, and Castiel nods indulgently. “Terrible manners of us.”

“I ate before I came,” Castiel replies, and Dean smirks to himself. Becoming a God may have done a bit for Castiel's sense of humour, apparently, but he still hasn't quite got the tone right for sarcasm.

“Did you feast from the skull of one of your enemies?” Dean asks, and takes a slug from his beer, trying to stay casual.

“My enemies do not have skulls, generally.” Castiel looks around the room, taking everything in, and gets to his feet, circling the table. “It's cleaner in here than before,” he remarks.

“That would be Sam,” Dean says, leaving off a ' _next to Godliness_ ' quip.

“Nice job,” Castiel says, fixing his eyes on the younger brother. Sam coughs.

“Um, thanks.”

Castiel's gaze turns searching. “How are you, Sam?”

“Fine,” he replies. “Ah, good actually. Thanks, Cas, by the way, for the--” he points to his head. “-- you know.”

Castiel smiles, and goes to stand by the glass doors, looking out, his hands clasped behind his back. For a second, Dean fancies he can see a glint of light catch on what he imagines to be Castiel's wings, but he's pretty sure he just imagines it. While the deity’s back is turned, he glances over to Sam and Bobby, who shrug and roll their eyes, respectively.

“Uh, Cas,” Dean says after a long moment of silence. “Did you come here to, you know, smite us or anything, or you just going to stand there?”

Castiel looks back over his shoulder. “Please, have your dinner first. You don't mind if I help myself to one of your lagers?”

Bobby takes a moment to realise it's him Castiel is addressing, then waves his hand in a gesture of _sure, go ahead, you're the God_.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, and leaves the room, before returning a split-second later to take his seat back in the vacated chair, uncapping a beer. “Eat,” he insists. “No need to say Grace.” Dean, Sam and Bobby exchange uncomfortable looks, and pick up their cutlery.

What follows is the most awkward meal Dean has ever sat through, so much so that he finds himself almost bursting into hysterical laughter more than once. In truth, he can't stop grinning all the way through the dinner, especially after Sam makes the futile attempt to start up some light conversation.

“I think the potatoes could have done with another ten minutes,” he muses, skewering one of the offending tubers on his fork. Dean has to physically cover his mouth to stop himself from cracking up.

“No, Sam,” he manages, once his fit of laughter has abated a bit, “they're perfect. What did you roast them in, anyway?” he doesn't manage to keep the snickering out of his voice, but who wants their last meal to be an entirely serious affair, anyway?

“Just some rosemary and a few cloves of garlic, and some olive oil,” Sam answers. “Extra virgin.”

“No offence, Cas,” Dean says, and this time it's Bobby trying to keep a straight face. Dean earns himself a glare from the God at the table, though not a particularly venomous one. Castiel just takes a long draught from his bottle, and watches Dean closely, head tilted to the side, as Dean struggles with the overwhelming good cheer currently infecting him.

Eventually, they all make it through their food, and Sam collects the plates off the table, putting them down on the bench. “I don't think I'll bother washing up this evening,” he says, thoughtfully, and sits back down at the table.

Dean decides it's the number one strangest family dinner he's ever had. And, even though he knows Castiel will probably be smiting them in a few minutes for not bending to his will, he enjoys every minute of it. At least something has finally changed.

*

The sound of dishwater filling up the sink has never been so intermingled with the feeling of relief, and frustration. Apparently Sam had decided, when Castiel moved onto is third beer and took up residence on the sofa, that no smiting would be occurring tonight, and he may as well get started on the dishes. Dean is sitting in the other armchair, listening to the muted sounds of plates and glasses bumping around in the water as Sam scrub-scrubs at them, and the sound of his own finger tapping against the glass of his beer.

Bobby is standing half way up the stairs, shooting Dean looks of _you-deal-with-him_. Dean glances over at Castiel, who his looking back at him benignly. As if the evening couldn't get any weirder, now their homicidal megalomaniac deity isn't even acting all that homicidal.

“Bobby,” Castiel sighs, apparently tiring of the way he's standing in the middle of the stairs, indecisive. “You are welcome to retire. I would like to speak with Dean alone.”

“Of course you would,” Bobby mutters, but Dean can see he's relieved, and he gets up the stairs fast as anything, making his way to the master bedroom, even though it has only just gotten dark.

“So, what, Cas?” Dean says gruffly. “Need someone to wipe out all the sparrows for you, or something?”

“I am rather fond of sparrows,” Castiel replies. “And even if I wished them dead, I would not need you to assist me in that endeavour.”

Dean feels a chill run down his spine at Castiel's tone. The words themselves aren't that threatening, but the meaning is definitely there. _Don't get comfortable_.

“What else are you fond of?” Dean asks, one finger toying with the beads of moisture clinging to the sides of his bottle. For the first time in weeks he feels no desire to drink, but having the object in his hands is calming. Castiel's reply is predictable.

“I think you know,” he says, and takes another long drink. As long as Dean's known him, he's always drank in the same way; long swallows that drain half the bottle in one mouthful. Fair enough, with a constitution like his.

They're silent for several long minutes, Castiel turning his head to watch Sam's back hunched over the kitchen sink. His eyes are half lidded, and if Dean didn't know him better he'd think he was drifting off to sleep. Dean wants to clap his hands in front of his face, but he's been trained out of abrupt movements and sounds in these last quiet weeks. No matter how much he wants to scream and shout, he's disinclined to even raise his voice. It just feels wrong.

“You are discontent,” Castiel says without moving. “I suppose I predicted that.”

Dean laughs without humour, low and deep in his chest, looking down at his hands, fingers linking around his bottle.

“What do you think of the weather?” Castiel continues.

“Or lack thereof, you mean? I hate it,” Dean answers. “Your doing?”

Castiel nods distantly. “I had to lay some people off.”

“Should probably get round to filling those positions, Cas. You're putting weather girls out of jobs,” Dean says, as if it is the most insulting thing about what Castiel is doing. Hell, Dean thinks, it is.

“I'll... look into it,” Castiel says, his eyes flickering over to Dean, his lips still marked with the amused twitch he's been wearing all evening. Dean doesn't know what to do with this Castiel – so calm, and self assured, yet, for all his quiet manners, still bursting at the seams with unimaginable power. It still emanates from him, feeding into the air, polluting every breath Dean takes with that dry, silky feeling of Castiel. “Is there anything else I can provide you with, aside from attractive meteorologists?”

Something to kill, is of course Dean's number one answer, but he keeps his mouth shut. No matter how much he would like a good monster hunt, he knows it would be selfish to put people in danger just so he could get back in his car, drive half-way across the country and cut something's head off. But god, it's tempting.

Castiel is waiting for an answer expectantly. “Anything at all, Dean,” he prompts, and Dean can tell he's trying to goad him into saying something reckless. He takes a deep breath through his nose.

“I'd like you to get lost,” Dean snaps eventually, and Castiel just blinks once, slowly, and then is gone.

*

The sun finds Dean standing at the window when she rises, her view obscured by the thick grey cloud choking the horizon. Dean presses his cheek to the cool window, and watches as the rain bounces in tiny pellets off the grey lumps of metal that are scattered over the ground. He can't see the highway any more, except for the occasional shadow of a truck trundling past, through the walls of rain and fog that eats up the distance.

His skin prickles with the cool breeze forcing it's way through the tiny crack at the window pane, and with the knowledge of Castiel's presence behind him. Castiel doesn't need to say it any more, not with the number of times the words have come out of his mouth. For you, all for you.

Dean steps back and closes the curtains knowing that the rain might be there when he opens them again, and it might not. “It's a start,” he says.


	2. Washing off the Rust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are storms galore (and a few rays of sunshine on request), Dean thinks things might be looking up until Sam starts winning at Scrabble, and it doesn't help that Castiel is crap at anagrams and doesn't really get the rules.

Dean lies on the roof of an old, grey station wagon (which is, in turn, heaped on two thirds of a rusted Ford), and stares up at the grey sky. The rain falls steadily, hitting his cheeks, his eyes, soaking him down to the bones. Around him, it turns the stacked cars into waterfalls, cascading from the sharp slants of metal onto the was-dusty-now-muddy ground around them. 

This is the third time it's rained like this – hard and heavy and thick and cool – in the past four days. When the sky hasn't been pouring rain like it's bursting the overstuffed clouds, she's still been forcing the water to earth, drizzling it through the still hot, humid air like sweat. 

Dean is still not cold, even though the metal around him is starting to feel like ice and he's only wearing a thin t-shirt and a ragged pair of worn jeans, but the chill is just starting to nip at his skin. He doesn't want it to; he wants to lie here, drinking in the water through his skin forever, letting it wash away the overbearing heat of the past several weeks. But the goosebumps are starting to prick at his arms, and the eternal rain is starting to strike him as no better than the eternal sun. 

“Alright, alright,” he prays to a God he doesn't believe in, “that's enough. Too much of a good thing, you know?”

The sky clears almost immediately, dripping one, two, three more fat little droplets onto his throat, chest, stomach. The sun slowly brightens as the clouds pass, and gets to work heating up the metal of the scrap-yard again. 

Dean sits up, and swings his legs off the station wagon, steps into the window of the old Ford, and drops the rest of the way down to the ground, splashing the hems of his jeans with rust coloured mud. 

“Just try to mix it up a little, maybe,” Dean suggests under his breath. By the time he makes his way back to the house, there is a cool breeze pushing behind him, nudging him forward. 

*

It's not long before Sam starts teasing him. 

“It's a bit warm for my run today,” he says, looking out the front door as he straps the pedometer onto his wrist. “Mind asking him to kick up a bit of a breeze?”

Dean glares at his brother over the rim of his coffee mug. Sam just smirks and leaves the house, closing the door behind him. Through the window, Dean can see his jogging up towards the highway, just as he does every morning. He takes another sip of coffee, then looks up at the cracked and speckled ceiling.

“Bit cool today, don't you think, Cas?” 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Dean can feel the air heating up around him, the sun through the window beating down that much harder. He sees Sam, growing smaller in the distance, reach up to wipe the sweat off his brow. 

“Thank _you_ ,” Dean says, and bites into his toast. 

*

November creeps her way in, almost unnoticed through the barrage of unseasonable weather, and brings with her a semblance of normalcy, a reminder of what late Autumn is really supposed to be like. The temperature drops significantly, and stays there, wind and rain kick up more and more often and, off towards the mountains, snow starts to litter the sides of roads in tiny, almost unnoticeable clumps. 

At 6:25 every evening, the weather forecasters on the news just shrug their shoulders and say, “Well, that's more like it.” 

Dean watches the news every single night – something he's never really bothered with before – just to relish in not knowing for sure what the weather will be tomorrow, or Thursday, or a week from now. 

For a while, he worries that the news is in danger of becoming just as boring and uneventful as Castiel's take on nice weather, but he quickly realises it's not so. Football players still make tasteless statements, politicians still make idiotic ones, and pandas still miraculously give birth and somehow make national television in doing so. 

But there hasn't been anything more devastating than that, yet, and Dean hopes that it's not just a pleasant coincidence. 

Bobby wanders in one evening while Dean's sitting on the floor, his back against the couch, watching something about finance. “Apparently a hunter down in Texas ganked a ghost last week,” he says. “Nothing big. A few floating cups, a clean burial. Burnt the bones, and everything was fine.”

Dean looks up in keen interest. “You saying there might still be jobs around?”

Bobby shrugs. “Yeah, well, I mean, restless spirits gonna stay restless. Not much our boy can do about that, is there?”

“No, guess not. What did Sam say when you told him?”

“Not a whole lot,” Bobby replies, sitting down on the sofa next to Dean's shoulder. “Just that one minor ghost sighting wasn't a huge deal, but hey, keep my feelers out. What's Cas cooked up for us this week?”

Dean looks back at the television. “Looks like we got a proper storm coming,” he says with a grin. 

“Good,” Bobby nods, and strolls out of the room. Dean reaches up behind him, fumbling about for the remote control and flicking the channel across as the news segues awkwardly into a story about a park for an elderly skate-boarding crew. 

*

The storm comes a few days later, rattling the windows violently in their panes and blasting heavy rain down on the roof, and with it comes Castiel, dry and calm. 

Sam and Bobby look up from the scrabble board set up on the living room floor in alarm; Dean doesn't bother, just keeps trying to find a word to make out of | J | I | M | O | S | K | X |. 

“Good evening,” Castiel says, looking down at the three men seated on the floor with his head cocked to the side and a slight smile on his lips. 

“Evening Cas,” Dean says, “there's another pillow on the couch if you want to join us. Just don't expect a mug of Sammy's special hot cocoa, we're out of Ovaltine.”

“That is fine,” Castiel says, and kneels down next to Dean, his coat splaying out around him. With a triumphant shout, Dean lays out his X, M and S around the “A” in Bobby's “TAVERN”, the X falling on a double letter score. 

“Dean, 'XMAS' isn't a word,” Sam sighs, reaching for the dictionary. 

“Colloquially it is.”

“You wouldn't know colloquial if it climbed into your ass head first,” Bobby says, glancing at Castiel warily. “What are you doin' here anyway? Have an evening off?” 

“Something like that,” Castiel says, watching Dean's movements closely as he reaches into the bag of letters, fishing around with his eyes shut. 

Sam closes the dictionary with a slam. “Fine!” he snaps, and scribbles Dean's twenty-five points onto his tally. “You're still losing.”

Dean just shrugs, adding his new letters to his stand. “Not for long, dude,” he says, and glances at Castiel. “You wanna join my team?”

“I do not know the rules,” Castiel says. 

“You can't have an extra team member!” Sam says, snatching away the rulebook as Dean tries to hand it to Castiel. 

“Why not?”Dean says, trying to snatch it back. “I'm at a disadvantage here, against you two university educated dicks!”

It takes both Dean and Sam a moment to realise that neither of them are holding the scrabble rulebook any more, and Castiel is now flicking through it. “I am on Dean's team,” he says with finality. 

“No!” Sam objects again. “How is _that_ fair?!”

“Just let him play,” Bobby says wearily, and then realises that he's mediating tantrums between two grown men and a deity. 

Sam backs down moodily, spending an awfully long time during his turn just brooding over his letters, but as the game carries on, he slowly cheers up again, realising that letting Castiel play with Dean isn't really helping his brother at all. 

“Shh, Cas!” Dean snaps for the third time, a few turns later, “don't tell them our letters! Just point at what you want me to see!” 

Castiel sighs in frustration, and grabs Dean by the jaw, turning his face and looking into his eyes for a long moment. Dean blinks frantically when Castiel lets him go, shaking his head. “Alright,” he says, reaching for their letters, laying out the word on the board. “If you say so.”

Sam just narrows his eyes. “I think telepathy is against the rules,” he says, and looks down at the board, adding up the meagre score on his fingers. 

“It was not mentioned in the book,” Castiel says, reaching for the letter bag, before Bobby's hand shoots out to grab the wrist of his trench-coat. 

“Oh no,” he scolds, “Dean's drawing the letters, Mr Omniscient.”

“I am not Omniscient,” Castiel says. “Yet,” and then whispers into Dean's mind, “ _But I_ can _see through fabric_.”

Dean chokes on his cocoa. Outside, the rain picks up again, beating loudly against the door. Castiel looks up at the ceiling, listening to the way that the heavy raindrops fall thick and fast on the roof, and lifting the corner of his mouth in an amused smile. 

The game passes quickly and predictably enough: Bobby wins, Sam comes second, Dean and Castiel come last by a generous margin, and Dean and Sam end up squabbling over the scores, before Castiel vanishes the notepad into the aether. 

“I do not understand what the purpose of that game was,” Castiel comments once Dean and Sam sit back down, which, Dean thinks, is his version of being a sore loser. 

“It's just what you do when there's a storm,” Dean says, shrugging. “Play Scrabble, look up funny names in the phone book, dust off the ol' Jenga set.”

Castiel knows better than to ask what Jenga is. 

“Did you come round for any actual, you know, reason?” Sam asks, sliding the letters off the board and back into their forest green bag. 

“I came to check that you were all well,” he says. “It would seem that you are.”

“We're just dandy,” Dean says. “If a bit bored.”

“That's good,” Castiel says, getting to his feet and walking over to the window. He sounds like he has more to say, but the seconds pass and he doesn't continue, so Dean prompts him along. 

“And how are you, Cas? Godliness working out for ya?”

Castiel is silent for a long time. 

“Yes, Dean,” he murmurs eventually, and for a moment Dean thinks that he's speaking into his mind again. “All is going well, as you may have noticed.”

“I see you got the hang of winter,” Bobby says, and Castiel glances over his shoulder, almost as if surprised that Bobby and Sam are still there. 

“I have appointed someone to take care of the weather,” he says. “I do not see the appeal in this sort of storm myself,” he runs his hand down the window, chasing the raindrops as they slide quickly down in sheets. “But apparently it is necessary.

“Lots of things are necessary,” he whispers, and this time Dean is _sure_ he's the only one who hears it. “Things I don't understand.”

Getting to his feet, Dean walks over to the window beside Castiel and brushes his fingers against his arm. Castiel turns his head, looking into Dean's eyes, and Dean thinks very, very loudly. “ _I'm here. If you need me._ ”

“ _I know,_ ” Castiel whispers into his mind. “ _I … appreciate it._ ”

Behind them, Sam leans back against the wall and rolls his eyes. “This is just getting gross,” he says, loudly and to no one in particular. 

*

Sam goes to bed first, up to the spare room he and Dean share with single mattresses pushed against opposite walls, saying that the way the rain is falling on the tin roof is making him sleepy. Bobby sits up with Dean and Castiel for a while as they surf through the late night programmes, until Dean finds the soft core erotica, at which point he announces that it's time to hit the sack. 

“This story is complicated,” Castiel says a few minutes into the short, his eyes narrowed at the screen, and this time Dean has to agree. 

“Doesn't help that it's in German,” he says. “Who's that guy?”

“I believe he is her lover,” Castiel answers, but he sounds unsure. 

“Wasn't her lover that guy with the goofy smile?”

“Perhaps this is her employer...” says Castiel after a moments consideration, and then leans back into the sofa cushions as the woman and her lover/employer begin to remove their clothes. “Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean says, not tearing his eyes away from the screen. “Wait, what's she saying?”

“That she can't do this, and she will... find another means to get the grant for her work,” Castiel translates. “Dean, my souls are not fitting.”

“They're not your souls, Cas,” Dean says, then looks away from the television as the girl buttons her shirt back up. “You mean they're not going to last?”

“No. The ritual... it was not designed for long term occupation. I thought I could harness them permanently, but they are slowly slipping away from me.”

“Back to Purgatory?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, looking pained. “I can hold them back, but …”

“Cas,” Dean says, shaking his head and looking intently at his friend. “You know what I think.”

Castiel's eyes break contact with Dean's, slipping back to the T.V.; Dean sighs, and turns back to the film as well, knowing that the odds of Castiel willingly separating from the source of his power is slim-to-none. 

“Hey,” Dean says after a few moments, “why is her boyfriend yelling at her?”

“He suspects her of cheating,” Castiel explains. “Because they haven't made love in several days and she is seeing that other man more frequently. She is insisting that their relationship is solely based on business.”

“Oh, okay,” Dean says. “Am I actually going to see boobs at any point?”

“The story is not about breasts. I believe it is about how harmful distrust can be to an otherwise fulfilling relationship.” 

Dean picks up the remote. “Boring.”

*

Eight hours later, Dean's eyes blink open, and he rubs the side of his face, feeling the indents of the sofa cushions marking his cheeks like a rash. The sun is no where to be seen, obscured by the blackened sky that still plummets rain with no apparent intention of ever letting up. Dean's not sure how he knows it, but he's aware that Bobby and Sam are still asleep – the house is hollow and quiet, like the eye of a storm. 

Sitting up and rubbing his face with calloused, but softening, hands, Dean wonders if Castiel is still here – he doubts it, but he has foggy memories during the night of sprawling out more and more on the sofa, his sock-clad feet connecting with annoyed legs next to him. He also has a vague recollection of half-waking, shivering with realised cold and sleepily begging Castiel for his trench-coat, which is confirmed by the heavy weight resting around his shoulders, now falling back to the cushions. 

Blinking, he looks around the room, lit by the dim grey of sunlight filtered through clouds and rain. It takes him a moment to spot Castiel, pressed like a shadow to the far wall, next to one of the bookshelves. He's facing away from Dean, his forehead pressed against the plaster, and after a few seconds Dean can hear the rasping sounds of his breathing, which, he thinks, might actually have been what woke him up. 

“Hey, thought you'd be gone,” he says hesitantly and Castiel glances over. His face looks drawn, haggard, and his eyes are glowing – not brilliant white, as usual, but a soft, smoking grey that seems to breeze down over his face in wispy tendrils. 

Castiel opens his mouth as if to speak, but nothing comes out except for a dry cough, and then another, and then he's doubled over, fingers digging into his knees as he chokes out rasping sounds, unnatural to him. Dean rushes over, grabbing Castiel by the shoulders and dropping to his knees to look up into his ashen face. 

“Cas, Cas,” he mutters, unable to find other words. “Cas, you--”

“ _Move,_ ” Castiel hisses into his brain, and Dean recoils backwards, just as the coughing erupts into a final painful outward breath – almost a sigh, that seems to pull Castiel with it, down to the floor as the smoke, the same as from his eyes, streams from his throat in one long, silken, burnt silver tendril. 

And then it's gone, and Castiel stays on his hands and knees for a long moment before getting to his feet, shakily and then steadily, and then reaching out to help Dean up with him. 

“You shouldn't have seen that,” Castiel says quietly, his hand still gentle on Dean's wrist. 

“You shouldn't have done it in Bobby's living room, then,” Dean murmurs back, and Castiel nods thoughtfully, before looking over to the window. 

“The rain is easing off,” he says, and Dean follows his gaze, seeing the light of the sun begin to push it's way through the clouds, warming up the living room. “Thank you, Dean.”

Then Castiel is gone, and Dean doesn't hear, but _feels_ the soft beat of his wings around him, ruffling his hair and ghosting over the exposed skin of his forearms. 

*

Sam comes downstairs while Dean is sitting at the kitchen table, biting into a jam pop-tart. The rain is still falling outside, but only in a gentle haze-like drizzle. Sam is wearing a hooded-polo over his usual running outfit, and once again strapping his pedometer onto his wrist. 

“You never came up to bed,” he says as he wanders over towards the front door. 

“Nah,” Dean says, wiping hot, sugary jam from the corner of his lip. “Slept on the couch.”

Sam's eyebrows draw together in concern. “It's cold down here,” he says, walking over to the door. “You should've at least gotten a blanket.” He knows his comment falls on deaf ears; Dean has never been one for normal sleeping habits, so he just clears his throat at the lack of reply and asks, “When did Cas leave?” 

Dean is silent for a long moment. “Dunno,” he says. “Some time during the night. Probably whenever I fell asleep.”

“How is he?” Sam asks.

“You know,” Dean answers, aware Sam doesn't know the half of it, but it just doesn't feel right to talk to him about what he saw. His brother just looks at him, concern written on his face, then pulls his hood over his head and jogs out into the drizzling rain. Once he's faded into the distance, a shadow in the fog, Dean follows out onto the porch, letting the droplets dampen his hair as he stands under the sky, the bitter wind biting at his neck. 

The cold wind feels truly cold today, and the long stretch of grey rain seems lonely and desolate without the familiar warmth of Castiel touching them.


	3. What is Under the Melt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the snow falls, Sam makes pancakes and goes house-hunting, Dean figuratively holds back Castiel's hair as he pukes and even though it's December, no one mentions Christmas because kind of the opposite is going on.

Dean has to slam the shovel into the icy ground several times before he manages to even break into the hard brown earth beneath the layer of snow. His breath fogs up the air in front of his mouth, and the tips of his fingers are going numb where they protrude from his fingerless gloves. By the time he digs the grave up it will be nearly morning, he thinks, but that's okay. The ghost can keep. The worst it's done so far is frighten one real-estate agent half out of his wits and set up a veritable winter-wonderland in the attic of it's long abandoned house. Big whoop, Dean thinks, but digs up the grave anyway, because apparently a couple are looking to buy the house (preferably _sans_ haunting) and the problem is only in the next town over from Bobby's. 

Loading his gun full of rock salt that morning, he'd asked Sam if he'd like to come help out, but his brother had said that Dean could surely take care of it himself. Which, yeah, is true, but beside the point. 

Dean turns the collar of his coat up against the freezing wind, and gets to work, hoping the hard digging will warm him up soon, and then, hopefully, the fire from the burning bones. The snow began to fall early this year, almost as soon as the rain ended, as if to make up for lost time. 

The ground around Dean's feet slowly turns from white to brown as he works, and then to grey slush, seeping in through the worn leather of his working boots, soaking his socks as the hours pass, until he's freezing from the bottom up, his legs feeling as if they are frozen solid even as he bends and stretches with every strike of the shovel into the ground. 

Eventually he digs into wood which is almost softer than the earth around it, and he quickly uncovers the whole coffin, pries the lid open, douses the bones inside with gasoline and fiddles with numb fingers at the flick of his lighter. The flame seems to be hiding from the cold air for several minutes, tucking itself resolutely inside the chamber. After a few more tries it catches, poking its blue head outside and falling into the hole as Dean drops it, setting up store there and growing, engulfing the bones one by one until they crackle like a roaring fireplace. Dean kicks some of the slush off from the ground and sits on a dryish patch of earth, dangling his feet over the fire like muddy Christmas stockings. 

Everywhere around him the snow is undisturbed and perfect, brilliant white, except for the brown-grey tracks of his footprints leading back to the Impala, and the red sparks dancing their way wildly out of the grave. 

*

Dean sits in his car for a long time waiting for the heating to get to work, his windscreen wipers furiously hacking away at the sheen of ice that built up while he was digging. His fingers are still too numb to drive, so he breaths on them, rubbing them together as he waits. He almost doesn't notice the flurry of wings marking Castiel's presence in the back seat, until he feels the warmth radiating from the deity. 

Dean twists around in his chair. “Thought you'd upgraded to silent running,” he says, but Castiel doesn't seem to hear him. He's resting his temple against the window, oblivious to the cold glass, and his eyes are closed. Dean would think he was asleep, if it weren't for the steady clenching and unclenching of Castiel's fingers in the fabric of his trousers, and the look of pain that keeps shadowing across his features. 

“Hey!” Dean clicks his fingers several times in front of Castiel's face. “C'mon, Cas!” 

He knows what happens next; the coughing, the snake-like, shadowy silver soul that pours itself from Castiel's body; But he seems to be fighting it, the effort he's exerting to hold everything _in_ sending the occasional tremor through his curled up body. Dean pushes himself over the front seat, shaking Castiel's shoulder roughly. “Better out than in,” he says, his hand moving up to Castiel's cheek, pressing his cold fingers to Castiel's burning hot skin. 

Castiel's eyes open slowly, the shadowy light creeping from them, curling through his eyelashes, flowing in wisps back into his hair. “Not here,” he whispers, and a few tendrils of silver creep out with the words, but he draws them back in with a rattling breath. “Outside.” 

“Okay, outside,” Dean agrees, pushes himself of his door and hurries around to Castiel's, helping him out of the car and into the snow, where he kneels, mindless of the sludge soaking through his trousers. Dean crouches on his heels beside him, one hand rubbing circles on Castiel back – not that he thinks Castiel will even notice. Almost immediately, Castiel lets out that long, sad sigh, and with it comes the soul, trailing slowly out of his body and off into the snow, leaving a perfect, worm-shaped path in it's wake which quickly fades and disappears. 

Castiel raises the back of a shaking hand to his lips in a very human gesture, taking a deep breath through his nose. “Sorry for bringing this to you, Dean,” Castiel says quietly, looking down at his knees buried in the snow, but apparently not registering this as a thing to remedy. 

“Hey,” Dean says gently, then, “Shh,” because it's what he always used to say to Sammy when he was sick as a kid, and then Ben that one time with the flu, only a little over a year ago now. Not that this is the same thing, not by far, but nonetheless, they are the words that Dean's instincts tell him to say. “Don't apologise. You come to me any time, anywhere, if you need me. You understand?”

Castiel lets out a sigh, and for a moment Dean thinks he's hacking up another soul, but no – the smoke streaming from his mouth is just the normal condensation of warm breath hitting cold air. Then he nods. 

“Good,” Dean says, sliding his arm around Castiel's back and under his arm. “Let's get you back to the car. Wanna come back to Bobby's?”

Castiel nods again. “I cannot return to Heaven in this state,” he says matter-of-factly, but Dean can hear the resignation in his voice. “Once this has passed. The... waves. They do not last long.”

Dean helps him to his feet, and half-carries his friend back to the Impala. “Yeah, time to call in a sick day,” he says, and hauls open the passenger-side door, man-handling Castiel into the seat. 

Through the pine-trees that line the outskirts of the sparse cemetery, the sun is just beginning to gleam brightly against the snow; it's a short drive back to Bobby's house. Dean thinks they'll make it back before it's even properly light. He climbs into the driver's seat, and reaches over once to mindlessly straighten Castiel's collar. “Tell me if you need me to pull over,” he says, then kicks into reverse, backing up the path that leads to the main road into town, and then to the main highway. 

*

Castiel is walking steadily on his feet by the time they park out front of Bobby's house in the driveway that Dean shovelled just yesterday, but still Dean is at his side the second they've both climbed out of the car, ready to catch him if he stumbles. Castiel looks at Dean with an amused smile and puts his hand on Dean's outstretched one, pushing it down to a more natural position at his side. Nonetheless, Castiel takes the steps up the porch slowly. 

“Bones burn alright?” Sam calls from the living-room as Dean and Castiel walk into the kitchen, then pokes his head round the corner. “What's he doing here?” His voice is concerned, perhaps noticing the way that Castiel's normally unchanging face is drained of colour and the hollows of his eyes seem sunken and bruised. 

“He's staying for a day or two, aren't you, Cas?” answers Dean, ushering Castiel over to the couch, where he obligingly slouches, bringing one hand up to comb through his messy hair. 

“An hour or two at the most,” Castiel replies, then briefly squeezes his eyes tight shut, swallowing thickly around an unseen blockage in his throat. Dean shoots him a warning glare, and Castiel looks calmly up at him, his features the picture of understated defiance.

“Um, what's going on?” Sam asks, standing awkwardly in the archway between the two rooms. “Is he okay?”

Dean crosses his arms. “He's being a little baby about spitting up.”

“I am not an --” Castiel starts, then coughs violently, just the once. A small stream of steel-coloured smoke dissipates in the air. He coughs again, and again, and again, puff after puff of the souls pushing themselves out from his throat. After a seemingly endless stream of coughs and silver tendrils evaporating into the chilly air, Castiel finally manages to draw in a shaking breath. 

“How many is that, now?” Dean asks, sitting down next to the deity on the couch and resting a hand gently on his shoulder. Castiel is thoughtful for a long moment, as if tallying in his head. Dean wonders if he does this every time, meticulously. 

“When it started,” Castiel says, “I lost only two or three in the space of the first month. But it is as if caused the levee to burst. I have since been losing them with more frequency.”

“How often?” 

Castiel leans back into the cushions and closes his eyes. “Several in every wave, and two or three waves a day, as of late. At this current rate, I have little more than nine years before I am nothing but an angel again.”

Sam is looking on, his baffled eyes slowly widening in understanding. “The souls,” he murmurs, his tone questioning, but neither Dean nor Castiel are listening, and he doesn't seem to expect a response anyway. 

“Nine years ain't bad,” Dean says, earning himself a thoroughly condescending glare from Castiel. He looks drained, more-so than he did only five minutes ago, and if he were human, Dean would be bundling him into bed, forcing him to go to sleep and breaking out the tinned Campbell’s tomato soup. “Is there anything I can get you?” he asks. “Aspirin? Barley Sugars? Whiskey?”

Castiel huffs out a laugh. “I just need to rest,” he says, sliding down until his head is resting on the arm of the sofa, his legs still awkwardly on the floor at odd angles to his body. Dean scootches over, giving Castiel more space to curl his legs up onto the cushions, and looks up at his brother.

“Sammy, grab us a blanket, would you?” he asks, and Sam nods, rushing upstairs to the spare bedroom, coming back several minutes later with the old patchwork quilt from Dean's makeshift bed. 

“I am not cold,” Castiel objects in confusion as Dean lays it out so that it covers the lower half of his body, and Dean's legs. “I am never cold. You are infantilising your Lord.” There is something in his tone to suggest a degree of facetiousness. 

“Shh,” Dean says, smirking, and rubs Castiel's leg gently through the blanket. “You know you're not my Lord.”

“I know,” Castiel says, then starts coughing again. Dean's hand slides under the blanket to sit on Castiel's knee, stroking comfortingly. After a moment, Castiel's hand slides over to, presumably, push his away. But no, he just lays his hand firmly over Dean's, holding it in place as his breaths start to come in ragged, broken gasps. 

Sam watches in fascination as the souls stream out from Castiel on currents of air, feeling their way towards cracks in the window and slipping out into the equally grey sky outside. 

Dean watches in fascination as Castiel's eyes burn and clear with every expelled breath; the way his face grows both more drawn, and yet seemingly loses years of age. The way his eyes fade from the harsh steel colour to their regular dull-sky blue. 

The way the light reflects of the snow through the window behind him catches on Castiel's hair, making it glow white at the edges; Dean stares at this reverently. 

*

Dean stands at the kitchen door looking out, and he thinks that is must have been easy in years past to mistake the way the golden light is steaming down onto distant grounds in mile-wide beams from the sky for being the hand of God: Touching and warming, even in the darkest depths of cold and snow. He thinks that yes, the clouds look like eternal realms of light and good, the way they are outlined by rims of white-gold. They look unreachable, untouchable, incorruptible – even if they are prone to dissipating and falling to earth in swathes of imperfect rain. 

He looks out over the flawless snow that now covers all the roads into the distance, and thinks of a beautiful room in a warehouse in California. Divine is a fabrication, flawless will always fall – as rain or as the ashes of perfect wings – and eternity lasts maybe a decade, if you're lucky. 

Not that any of it matters, because Sam is mixing pancake batter and remembered to buy strawberry syrup before they got snowed in. 

“I want an electric stove top,” Sam says, fiddling behind Dean with the matches next to Bobby's oven. Dean doesn't reply, because he's not entirely sure what the difference between electric and gas stoves are, and also because he's wondering when Castiel is going to come back again. “Not one of those ones that take ages to heat up though.”

Finally Sam manages to get a match to stay light long enough to light the stove without burning off his fingers in the progress. “What do you think, Dean?”

Dean turns around, feeling like he's missed a whole chunk of this one-sided conversation. “About what? Ovens? Sammy, I honestly couldn't give a goddamn fuck, sorry.”

“Well,” Sam continues, looking nervous, “not _just_ ovens. But, you know, bed frames. Maybe, maybe separate rooms. A dishwasher. A golden retriever.”

Dean drops his jaw incredulously at Sam's words. “Are you asking me to _move in with you_?” he asks, his eyebrows shooting in the opposite direction to his dangling mouth. 

Sam laughs weakly, as if he's expecting a violent outburst any moment. “We can't live with Bobby forever, Dean,” he says. “And we can't exactly go back to hunting, not when there's practically nothing to hunt.”

Turning back to look out the door again, staring at the heavens he knows aren't heaven, Dean shakes his head in exasperation. “Sammy, credit card fraud and hustling pool is one thing when you're checking into cheap motels under fake names: How exactly do you suggest we pay for a house? Especially when I'm officially _dead_ and your police record's probably having trouble fitting into it's old jeans.”

“Okay,” Sam sighs, picking up his spatula dejectedly as he pours the pancake mixture into a hot pan. “That's a good point. We can't stay like this forever, though.”

“Guess not,” agrees Dean reluctantly, then adds, “Not a golden retriever. A German Sheppard, or a Lassie.”

Sam prods at the corner of the pancake, peeking under the edge prematurely. “You mean a Border Collie,” he says, throwing a couple of rashes of bacon into the sizzling pan. The smell of the meat frying drifts over to Dean's nostrils, and he breathes in deeply, his outward breath fogging up the glass in front of him. 

“I dunno, the ones that are black and white and as smart as humans,” he says, hand-waving as he turns away from the door and wanders over to the stove, watching as the surface of the un-flipped pancake bubbles lightly. 

Sam smirks, and slides his spatula into the pan. “Smart as you, maybe,” he mutters, and Dean grins, dog-like. 

“We got any whipped cream?”

“It's next to the maple on the bench,” Sam answers, refusing to look as Dean squirts some of the cream onto his finger, where it coats his hand like sweet, soft snow, and sucks it into his mouth. “That's disgusting.”

Dean shakes the can, pouring another generous line of cream onto his finger, forcing it towards Sam's mouth before his brother has a chance to recoil away. It ends up smeared all over his lips, and Sam wipes his mouth with the back of his hand – and Dean is reminded of Castiel, knee deep in snow, looking ill and un-godlike. 

“You think he's doing okay?” Dean asks, looking out into the glowing sky again. Sam knows immediately who he's talking about. 

“Yes,” he insists, voice exasperated. “I'm sure he's fine. He always is.” 

No, Dean thinks, he always has been so far. And 'so far' is never certainty: Certainty isn't even eternal or reliable. He knows that. Everything is topsy turvy, and always has been. There's no god (but there was), but there _is_ Castiel, and he's just a control freak who's puking up his power source involuntarily, one insignificant monster-soul at a time. God won't be god in ten years, and a year ago Dean would have thought he'd be dead by then; though now it seems just as likely that he'll be living in suburbia with his brother and two-point-five dogs for company. 

Nothing is certain: Certain is bullshit, just like destiny. 

*

The next time Castiel comes to Dean, it's in the night. He times his arrival well; it's not often that Sam does not spent the night in his bed opposite Dean's, but tonight he's gone hunting. Not monster hunting, but the scary sort – _house_ hunting. He'll be staying over night because the town he wants to move to is on the other side of the state, and he plans to be up early for inspections the next morning. He asked Dean if he wanted to join him, but Dean said he thought Sam could probably handle it on his own. Sam said that wasn't really the point, but left anyway. 

So Dean has their room to himself for the first time in the months that they've been living with Bobby, and this is the night that Castiel comes, silently, and settles himself on the end of Dean's bed, alerting the older Winchester to his presence with just a whispered command, “ _Wake up_ ”. 

Dean pushes himself to his elbows, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. He can make out Castiel's basic shape against the glow of the moon which shines in through the ice-rimmed windows, lighting the deity from behind. It's cold in the room, and Dean shivers as he sits up, stripping the warmth of his blankets away from his bare chest. 

“Hey Cas,” he says, his voice hoarse with sleep. “You okay?” 

“I am well,” Castiel replies, and as Dean's sight adjusts enough to make out Castiel's features he realises he looks it too. He looks healthier than he did the last time Dean saw him, or the time before that. In fact, he looks like a god again, radiant and _perfect_. The skin that was haggard and ashen is now luminescent and clear, like a Greek sculpture. A sculpture with a permanent slouch, a trench-coat and a seeming inability to straighten its tie. 

“Jeez Cas, you finally find the fountain of youth?” Dean remarks, reaching one hand out to brush Castiel's cheek. A week ago he would have done it, but his fingers pause an inch away from his skin tonight and then withdraw. 

“It's okay, Dean,” Castiel murmurs in his rumbling thunder-in-a-clear-sky voice. “You can touch me.” He takes Dean's hand in his, guiding it forward. “I _want_ you to touch me.”

“What happened?” Dean asks, knowing he sounds awed, his fingers skating through Castiel's hair: That warm, silk-like aura is back, the one Dean hadn't really realised was missing, and it's pouring into Dean's skin like summer sunlight. 

“I found a way,” Castiel says. “They can stay with me forever, now.”

Dean draws his hand away, not really realising it had trailed down to Castiel's neck – not really remembering when he had started wanting to touch Castiel all over, everywhere, but knowing it was a long, long time ago. “Oh.” 

“You are disappointed in me,” Castiel nods. “But that is okay. You don't understand, yet.”

Dean curls his lip into a smile, lopsided and unhappy. “I'm never gunna understand this, Cas,” he says, but Castiel just shakes his head. 

“You will by the time morning comes,” he insists, and holds out his own sunshine-hot hands to caress Dean's face. Dean can't help but to revel in the touch, to revere and venerate it. “I said that the time would come when you would have to decide,” Castiel whispers, his face close enough that Dean can smell his sweet breath on his own lips. He thinks Castiel smells like what he imagines ambrosia would taste like. “Now is that time. You must decide whether you will place your faith and your love in me.”

Dean's lips part, at first to speak – and to deny – but ultimately to try to drink in that sweet scent. “Cas, you know--”

“ _Not_ until I have presented my argument, however,” Castiel says, and presses his lips to Dean's, and god, if he _smelled_ honey-tempting, then Dean is immediately convinced that Castiel has been eating of the fruit of the gods by the barrel full the moment he tastes his mouth. He moans into the kiss, forgetting for a moment everything but the heat that Castiel emanates. He is sure it must be melting the frost for miles around the house, that Bobby must be kicking his blankets down to his feet in the room up the hall, that the buds of springtime must be peeking out through the last remnants of melting snow a couple of months too early. 

Castiel's hands are soft but sure as they drift down Dean's neck – swiftly followed by his lips, which trace their way from Dean's mouth over his stubbled jaw-line and down to the thumping pulse point in his neck – and press into Dean's chest, pushing him back down onto the mattress. Castiel climbs over Dean, his legs spread over Dean's hips as he bends to plant warm, wet kisses all over Dean's neck and chest, tonguing his clavicle surely, then sliding backwards and down to swipe his tongue flatly over Dean's nipple. 

Dean is a mess in moments, his own hands drifting through Castiel's hair, and sliding down to his shoulder, worming their way inside his unbuttoned collar to touch _skin_. He wonders if he's lost already, whatever game this is that Castiel is playing to win over his Faith. But then he wonders if it would be so bad to lose: He'd get to live, and if this is living--

He lets out a rumbling groan as Castiel slides down his body further still, so his knees are now straddling Dean's shins, and his hands are gripping Dean's hips, and his mouth is kissing hotly at the very base of Dean's abdomen. Castiel looks up, seeking out Dean's eyes with an intent look. 

“I haven't done this before,” he states in the most casual tone, “but if I can rebuild heaven from the rubble of anarchy and chaos, then I can control your pleasure with ease.”

“O- okay,” Dean says, and tries, really tries, to think up some smart ass quip to at least regain some control in this situation, but that's not going to happen. And then Castiel's fingers are tracing almost feather-light over Dean's erection curiously, and Dean's head falls backward onto the pillows because he's being fondled by a _deity_ and it feels good. 

Castiel eases Dean's underwear down to his thighs carefully, almost as if he's the one venerating this situation, and takes Dean into his hand, sliding slowly up and down his length, squeezing just a little tighter at the head, and skimming down the pre-cum already beading at the tip. He's patient and measured and in control as he touches Dean, who loses any track of the passing time to the pleasure building in his body from the way that Castiel is worshipping him. 

“Dean,” Castiel says sharply, as if trying to tether Dean to awareness. “You must know; it is all, always for you.”

“God, I know,” Dean replies, but he might have only have thought it, he realises a moment later. But it doesn't matter, because he's sure Castiel hears, because Castiel groans, expelling air against the skin of Dean's thigh, where his head is resting gently. 

“ _Yes,_ ” Castiel murmurs, then raises his head to kiss Dean's cock, his lips brushing over the skin damply. His tongue darts out, tasting him, and then Castiel is mouthing and tonguing Dean's hardness with vigour, his hand only curled loosely at the base, forgotten. 

“Cas, more,” Dean whimpers, his hand moving from where it's curled gently in Castiel's hair to stroke his cheek, to try to guide him. “Please.”

“No,” Castiel says, ever stubborn. “Say it again.” 

“Please _God_ ,” Dean begs, and Castiel takes him into his mouth, sliding his lips hotly down the shaft. Dean has to work very, very hard not to shout, and instead just makes a mindless, almost silent sound that could be a broken _a-ah!_ , or something else entirely. The way Castiel is sucking Dean down is obscene if only for the way his eyes are closed in pleasure, like he's tasting something _better_ than ambrosia; better than all things on heaven and earth. 

When Dean comes, his whole body shaking with it, Castiel swallows around him, moaning like someone is feeding him hot sticky-date pudding, soaked in sweet syrup on the tip of a dessert spoon. Castiel licks every inch of Dean's cock over as he comes down, then lays his head back down on Dean's thigh, smiling up at him warmly. 

“Cas, I--” Dean stammers, and grabs the angel by the jacket collar, hauling him up level with him. Castiel's hands slip on the mattress as he tries to stay steady, and Dean kisses the life out of him. Then he sits up, pushing Castiel gently away. 

“That doesn't change my answer,” he says breathlessly, although it very, very nearly does because now he's thinking it would not be so very bad to worship Castiel for eternity. 

“You do not think I am meant to be God,” Castiel says, part enquiry, mostly statement of fact. “No matter how keen you seemed on the idea several moments ago.”

“I don't think anyone is meant to be God, Cas,” Dean explains gently, completely unsurprised that Castiel has no concept of _afterglow_. “Especially not if you have to turn yourself into one giant soul powered weapon to do so.” 

Castiel nods silently. His eyes, which seemed so bright and clear before now seem sad; but Dean realises that he just hadn't noticed the sadness before – it had been there. 

“I agree,” Castiel states. “That's why I am releasing the souls back to Purgatory.”

Dean blinks. Maybe eternity doesn't even last six months, sometimes. “What, why?”

Sighing, Castiel smiles. “Because I feel warm, full and loved with them inside me,” he says, his eye contact steady with Dean's even as the whites of his eyes start to swirl tumultuously with steel coloured mist. “But it is a poor substitute.”

The mist twists it's way out of Castiel's eyes, this time falling almost lifelessly downward in thin, constant streams. They leak from the corners of his parted lips, but with a firm blink and a deep breath, Castiel reigns them back. It is not yet time. 

“So, Dean,” he continues, reaching out a hand – still sticky with forgotten come – to clasp over Dean's own, his tone imploring. “I am asking you again, for the final time, to pledge your faith, love and loyalty unto me, your guardian.”

*

The thick silver cloud that shrouds the stacks of frosted cars that surround Bobby's house is almost completely invisible amongst the regular, icy mist that creeps over the ground as morning nears, along with the light splattering of snow that falls in the pre-dawn hours. It dissipates, leaving nothing on Earth or in Heaven to tell of its ever having been there except the angel, who is slumped against his human's chest, fingers clutching at the man's shoulders and back.


End file.
